


Breathe

by draculard



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Armitage Hux Needs A Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Poe Dameron's Jacket, Pre-Slash, Rape Aftermath, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Whump, self destructive behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29649936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Poe came here to kill Hux, not to rescue him. He finds himself revising that plan.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Armitage Hux
Comments: 13
Kudos: 61





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr, I'm draculard there too

**I. Blood**

It’s the smell of blood that makes Poe gag. Not the sight of the wounds themselves, or the knowledge of what Hux’s captors must have done to him: it’s the thick and heady scent of copper in the air that shoves its way down his throat and almost makes him sick.

Almost. His hands are steady — slick with sweat and clammy from adrenaline, but perfectly capable of aiming his blaster. He takes out the jailer in Hux’s cell. He takes out the men who rush to his aid. He stuns the soldiers running toward him down the hall.

He doesn’t touch Hux. The smell of melted plastic armor and burnt skin replaces the scent of blood. He turns, and through the smoke he sees little flashes that will stay with him forever:

Ginger hair matted with blood.

Pale skin bruised so dark that for one brief moment Poe thinks it’s rotting.

Open wounds, circular burn marks from where someone pressed a hot blaster against his stomach and thighs. Dried blood, the crust of cum on his legs, his back, his chest, his face. The deep lines worn into his wrists from where his captors used twine instead of binders, favoring pain over efficiency, confident that they’d broken him so badly he couldn’t escape. 

He is Poe’s target. He is nude and barely breathing. He is the man who destroyed the Hosnian System. He is lying in his own urine on the floor, unable to stand.

He is a general of the First Order, and he’s been raped by men who call themselves allies of the Resistance.

Poe takes a deep breath and cuts the ties around Hux’s wrists. 

* * *

**II. Bacta**

“That’s all I can do,” Poe says, standing from a crouch. He tosses his hands up, a muted gesture of helplessness. Hux’s eyes follow his hands like he’s expecting a blow, but his expression is weary, not cautious; if Poe were to hit him, he doubts Hux would even flinch.

The bacta has taken care of the deep wounds around Hux’s wrists, and it’s eradicated the infected cuts on his back and thighs. Perhaps it will dull the pain of his burn wounds; perhaps not. There was little left by the time Poe got to them. He stands over Hux, who sits half-dressed on a bench in Poe’s freighter, wrists crossed loosely over his knee.

Head bowed. If not for the strain and exhaustion in his posture, he might look natural. Even if he did look natural, the antiseptic smell hanging around him would give him away. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Poe asks. He can see Hux staring at his worn leather boots; Hux’s own feet are bare, his bruised and bloody toes peeking out from behind bandages. His toenails are gone, his soles flogged raw.

“What information do you need?” asks Hux, tone placid, conversational.

It takes Poe a moment to realize they’re having different conversations. He wants to know how badly Hux was hurt; Hux thinks this is an interrogation. He hesitates, sits beside Hux on the bench. 

“They raped you,” he says.

Hux doesn’t meet his gaze. He lifts his chin, stares at the bulkhead opposite him with cool eyes and a tight jaw.

“I am a soldier,” he says with neither pride nor shame, just stating a fact. “I _have_ been tortured before, General. Haven’t you?”

Poe’s lips lift in a half-smile, no real amusement. He says nothing. 

After a moment, so subtly it could be classified as an accident, Hux shifts in his seat, his arm brushing against Poe’s. A light touch, barely there. Poe sneaks a glance at Hux’s face, sees a glaze of confusion in his eyes, a hint of fear. He understands the touch for what it is: not comfort, exactly, but grounding.

There are a million things Poe could be doing, piloting the ship away from here chief among them, but for now, he doesn’t move.

* * *

**III. Bruises**

They won’t fade for weeks. They limit Hux’s movements in the shower. Dameron offers help, and Hux snaps out a refusal so harsh that it makes them both freeze, Dameron flushing, Hux pale. He struggles on his own beneath the water spray, can barely move his arms or bend his legs.

He won’t be clean — truly clean — for quite some time. Won’t be able to rid himself of the smell of humiliation which lingers on his skin. He wears one of Dameron’s flight suits, but beneath the plastic scent of the material, Hux swears he catches whiffs of semen and piss. It doesn’t matter that it’s been days since he was rescued; the smell of blood is gone, but those two scents remain.

He stands before the mirror afterward, examines his face. The hum of the engines offers flawless soundproofing, allows Hux to do whatever he wants in here without Dameron finding out. There are a thousand options.

What he does is line his knuckles up with his cheekbone, pull his fist back, and punch himself in the face. 

The first blow is soft, less painful than he wants it to be. His self-preservations instincts have kicked in, making him pull the punch. He doesn’t let that happen again. He pulls back, strikes himself again and again in the same place, until every blow jars him, makes his bones shake in his head, leaves his skin heated and fragile to the touch. 

He presses his fingers to his cheekbone. He can almost feel the broken blood vessels stinging beneath his skin.

When he sits next to Dameron that night, the pilot’s eyes track up and linger on Hux’s new bruise.

He doesn’t say a word.

* * *

**IV. Bed**

At night, he lies stiff in his bunk, unable to find comfort. His body screams at him no matter how he sleeps, but this is best: on his back, arms crossed as much as he can manage over his stomach, legs straight and slightly spread. He stares up at the ceiling, at Dameron’s bunk above his. He listens to the Resistance pilot toss and turn in his sleep.

He feels his heart hammering in his chest. He tells himself the sounds mean nothing; his nervous system tells him otherwise, insists that Dameron is waking, getting out of bed, coming his way. A trickle of heat burns through his chest, into his stomach and bladder, leaves him struggling to breathe as his muscles go limp. He can think of nothing but keeping himself in control, not letting fight-or-flight get the best of him. He focuses so hard on this that he can’t stop his breath from whistling through his teeth, nor can he stifle the frightened groan that escapes his lips, completely involuntary.

In the bunk above him, Dameron goes still. His voice is thick and rough from sleep.

“You alright, buddy?” he asks.

Hux clenches his fist, drives his knuckles into a bruise on his ribs, lets the pain bring him back. His captor is asking him if he’s alright. When Hux says nothing, Dameron peeks down at him, his face impossible to read.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll be at the base soon. The Resistance will take care of you.”

The Resistance will take care of him. How the hell is he supposed to answer that?

* * *

**V. Blaster**

Poe notices it’s missing from its holster at the worst time: when he’s plotting their hyperspace route. He hands the controls over to BB-8 and stands, nerves jangling, crossing to the cramped living space that he and Hux have made into a temporary home.

He finds Hux sitting on the edge of his bunk. His shirt is open, revealing the blood-stained bandages beneath; they need changing, but there’s nothing left to change them with. Clasped loosely in his hand, which rests at his side, is Poe’s blaster.

Poe swallows. His throat is dry.

“Hey,” he says, his voice a rasp.

Hux’s eyes meet his. He lifts the blaster a little, points it not at Poe but at himself. There’s no expression on his face, no emotion in his eyes, as he raises it and presses the barrel beneath his chin.

He doesn’t speak as Poe approaches. His grip on the blaster stays loose; he makes no attempt to pull the trigger. When Poe takes the blaster away, sets it aside, Hux puts up only the briefest of fights: his grip on the handle tightens, his hand spasms, he lets it go.

He doesn’t react when Poe’s hands land on his shoulders, squeezing gently, turning Hux to face him. His gaze is haughty, exasperated, dignified and unashamed; he’s ready to argue that he has a right to kill himself, that he won’t reveal his secrets in another round of torture, that he doesn’t trust the Resistance and there’s nothing Poe can do to convince him. Poe can see the arguments boiling in his eyes.

But when he pulls him forward, Hux crumbles into his arms. 

* * *

**VI. Breathe**

The air on Ajan Kloss is cold and misty in the morning, the kind of air that can coat your lungs in frost. But it will warm up soon, when the sun is high. For now, Poe drapes his jacket over Hux’s shoulders, places one hand flat between his shoulder blades for support.

They stand on the ramp of Poe’s freighter, looking down at the Resistance camp. A few curious looks are thrown their way. Nobody rushes to put Hux in cuffs; few people seem to recognize him, and those who do only look at Poe in surprise, then scowl and move along.

“I told you,” Poe says softly.

Hux says nothing. His teeth are clenched, his face blank. He blinks rapidly and waits for the mist to crash to the ground, for the image before him to fracture into nothing. For the forest and the smell of fresh green leaves to glitch and turn into his cell walls, the scent of blood.

He blinks. He blinks again, the bruise on his cheekbone stinging in the cool air. Poe’s hand on his back is warm and broad and magnetic, keeping him upright, keeping him still. Hux swallows past a tight throat and watches the forest blur.

Now. Now it will dissolve, reveal itself for a hallucination. Now it will become his cell again.

But he blinks and the blurriness intensifies then fades, a tear blazing down his cheek, over his self-inflicted bruise, too hot and immediate to ignore or classify as a delusion. He feels Poe’s hand flex on his back, reminding him that he’s there.

“Breathe,” Poe says, “and we can go down when you’re ready.”

Hux breathes.


End file.
